He followed her in silence to the log she had indicated, a few rods back from the roadside at the edge of the clearing. He sat down beside her and waited for her to speak, and as she remained speechless, evidently in distress, his lips curled in a smile of reviving confidence. He watched the quick rise and fall of her bosom, exulting in her difficulty. Birds were piping among the fresh green twigs overhead. The air was redolent of the soft fragrance of May: the smell of the soil, the subtle perfume of unborn flowers, the tang of the journeying breeze, the spice of sap-sweating trees. The radiance of a warm, gracious sun lay soft upon the land. At last she spoke, not tremulously as he had expected but with a firmness that boded ill for his composure. "Barry," she began, still staring straight ahead, "I don't know just how to begin. It is awfully hard to--to say what I feel I must say. Perhaps I should have waited till--well, till you were home for a little while,--before doing what I have made up my mind to do. But I thought it right to have it over with as soon as possible." She paused for a moment and then resolutely faced him. He saw the pain in her dark, troubled eyes, and the shadow of an appealing smile on her lips. His face hardened. "So," she went on unflinchingly, "I came down to the landing to meet you in case you were on the Paul Revere. I cannot marry you, Barry. I--I don't love you as I should. I thought I did but--but--well, that's all. I don't know what has happened to make me see things so differently, but whatever it is I know now that I was mistaken,--oh, so terribly mistaken. I know I am hurting you, Barry,--and you have a right to despise me. I--I somehow hope you will,--because I deserve it." He smiled indulgently. "I hope you don't think I am taking this seriously. This isn't the first time I've heard you take on like--" "But I mean it this time, Barry,--I do truly and honestly," she cried. "I know I've played hot and cold with you,--and that's just the point. It proves that I never really cared for you in--in that way--down in my soul, I mean. I am sure of it now. I have been dreadfully unhappy about it,--because, Barry dear, I can't bear to hurt you. We are not suited to each other. We think differently about a great many things. We--" "Look here," he exclaimed roughly, no longer able to disguise his anger; "you've got to stop this everlasting--" "Let go of my arm, Barry Lapelle!" she cried. "Don't you dare lay your hand on me like that!" He loosened his grip on her arm and drew back sulkily. "Ah,--I didn't mean to hurt you and you know it. I wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world. I'm sorry if I was rough with--" "I don't blame you," she broke in, contritely. "I guess it would serve me right if you beat me black and blue."